A procession of sophisticatedly dressed elitists are ushered into the skylighted entryway of my home. I pass the cherry-wood center table and the assortment of French mahogany to welcome them in as they arrive. I hand out charismatic smiles with home-trained charm, sharing grins and pleasantries before I escort them to the dining room. A myriad of appetizers await them, with other guests conversing politely, holding flutes of gold champagne.
The sparkling chandelier sets everything below aglow, sending glimmers across exotic gowns and suits. The dining table is adorned with a Celtic runner, and metal tiered stands line the spine that are arranged with entrees.
"Avara."
A balding man approaches me, and the buttons of his suit jacket are clutching on for dear life.
"Peterson," I greet gleefully. "How are you?"
